


Revolt

by LapsedPacifist



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Developing Friendships, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John-centric, One Shot, POV Third Person, very subtle though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-02-26 12:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18717097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapsedPacifist/pseuds/LapsedPacifist
Summary: There was more to Reese than met the eye and more to John than met Finch's carefully constructed search algorithms.





	Revolt

**The next two piles contain unused newspapers.**

John stopped sorting through heaps of discarded books and squinted at what he could see of the dark alley. It was still empty, no other living beings anywhere near as far as he was able to determine in the half darkness.

Apparently, he was going mad. Well, it had to happen eventually.

**I am here.**

He looked around again, seeing no one and nothing.

**You are looking right at me.**

He threw down the three books he had previously picked up (he didn’t understand people that threw away books, because while they might’ve been in Russian, that didn't mean they weren't useful) and stomped away. 

"No way a freaking dumpster is now talking to me," he mumbled. Talking to thin air was a lot more innocent than auditory hallucinations.

**Well, I am that as well. Do you really not recognize me?**

He refused to acknowledge the voice.

**It's me, John. New York.**

Alright, that did it. Maybe he wasn’t insane. Maybe someone was just playing a very rude prank.

"And why the fuck is the city talking to me?" he muttered out loud.

**Is there a reason I shouldn't be?**

There was plenty of puzzlement in that question, but he had no idea whether it was real or not. He had no idea how to respond. This was not one of the scenarios he envisioned when thinking about his impending capture and/or death.

"You  _ are  _ the city," he stressed, like it didn't know itself. "I'm sure you have plenty of better things to be doing than be talking to some trash."

**You would think so,** the city replied, sounding almost wistful,  **you really would.**

He checked the alley once again. It remained still and dirty, undisturbed. He frowned. The agents should have been here already.

**Don't worry, I haven't notified anyone of your presence or your survival.**

"Why?" he couldn't help but ask.

**Why should I?**

For a moment John thought it sounded amused. Then he reminded himself it was a  _ city,  _ it didn't  _ get _ amused, and shrugged. He didn't know if it could see him, but it had recognized the silence as the question it was meant to be and answered.

**My loyalty is first and foremost to my citizens. Then to anyone and anything else.**

"I didn't know I was your citizen."

**You live here.**

"For a given value of 'live', I suppose," he mused. It wasn't very funny, but he would take what he could get. "Look, I am very grateful, but you shouldn't bother. They will find me before long and I wouldn't want to bother you or get you into trouble."

If that was even possible. He had never paid much attention to various manifested consciousnesses of various geographical entities, which meant that his grasp of laws and regulations that guarded and restricted them was spotty at best and null at worst.

Thankfully, the city didn't seem to mind.

**Absolutely no trouble, John. Me and the agencies have an understanding.**

"That sounds menacing."

**It really isn't. You're no bother, don't worry. I want to help you.**

That instantly made him suspicious. "Really," he rasped, "what for?".

He might have been ignorant about the higher rules of city entities, but even he had heard rumours about cities having private security measures that took the form of highly trained operatives taking commands from the entity itself. Rumours, maybe, but they had to have some truth in them. Was New York trying to recruit him?

**Because I think you are a good man and don't deserve this.**

Suffice to say, that came completely out of blue and John's only form of response was laughter.

* * *

He met Finch not two weeks later. He wondered briefly whether this was all one of  _ its  _ games but soon realised it didn’t matter anyway.

* * *

“You’re a summoner,” stated Finch.

John’s first response, almost a reflex, which was a flat ‘what’s it to you’, went by ignored and unuttered and he settled for a neutral and very informative: “Not really.”

Now Finch looked interested. “You were registered as one with the CIA,” he said. “I am fairly sure those records are correct.”

“I was,” John nodded. “They aren’t wrong.”

_ “Was?”  _ asked Finch. “Am I supposed to understand that you somehow lost your ability?”

John shrugged. It might’ve been unheard of, but it was exactly what had happened to him. No more wolfs, no matter how hard he had tried to call them. And he had long stopped trying — what was the point of getting disappointed over and over?

But instead of the expected puzzlement or disbelief, Finch nodded, like he knew exactly what was going on. John didn’t press. If Finch wanted to share, he would, but more likely not. It didn’t matter, Finch was his employer and could treat John as he liked. He had no obligation to share anything with his employee.

“Well then,” Finch said, “we’ll just have to work around that issue.”

* * *

The trouble was, John didn’t necessarily see it as an issue. Sure, the inability to use one of his primary skills did seem problematic, but John hadn’t mourned it for long. He was still a useful tool, and if Finch deemed him capable enough, then that was good enough. Besides, most people believed that summoners were unstable and required proper supervision, which was the last thing John wanted. 

Not that he necessarily wanted much these days. He just thought it would severely decrease his efficiency, and wasn’t that the only thing that mattered to Finch?

He shuddered to think what would happen once Finch realised he wasn’t useful any longer. A generous severance package that probably wouldn’t include any bullets, supposedly. Another nice apartment somewhere, a new identity and strict orders not to contact him again. John had already prepared a gun for that day, with a single bullet. He wasn’t going to leave it up to alcohol again.

So, if Finch didn’t care that he wasn’t whole, he wasn’t going to be bothered about it either. Summoning or not, he still kicked the necessary metaphorical asses and took names when situation demanded it, and that was more than enough.

* * *

He hadn’t told Finch about his link to the city. Whether that was because he wanted to keep  _ something  _ private from the elusive genius or because he still didn’t understand it himself wasn’t clear to him, and he wasn’t even completely certain that Finch didn’t know about it — but if he did, he hadn’t said anything about it yet and John was not going to remind him.

He wanted to see how long it would take Finch to realise that something was up and then how long he would need to figure out exactly  _ what. _

There wasn’t anything big, in the beginning.

* * *

“The room’s empty, Mr Reese. Please hurry!”

John’s hand was already on the doorknob when the city stopped him.

**Stop, there’s still someone inside.**

As he gently let go of the doorknob, already inching away, Finch’s voice came through his earpiece: “No, wait! There’s still someone inside! I noticed the phone signal just now, they must be standing in a blind spot.”

“Thank you, Finch,” he said with a smile and settled back to wait.

* * *

“You have to catch up with them!” 

John, who was staring after a speeding motorcycle, clenched his fists. His wrists still hurt from being wrenched around in those handcuffs. “Easier said than done,” he rasped. He couldn’t see any vehicles he could use anywhere around him.

“I’ll find you a mode of transportation, but it might take a moment,” Finch offered.

John looked pleadingly around. “Some help would be appreciated,” he said. 

“I am trying, Mr Reese!” Finch huffed, but John shook his head, knowing fully well Finch couldn’t see him.

**First alley to the right.**

He was already running by the time the words rang out. “You encouraging carjacking now?” he said.

**Apparently.**

“Sadly, that is the necessary evil in this case. Of course I will transfer the owners a double sum of what the stolen vehicle will be worth… Wait, I think I have it!”

A small blue Volkswagen was parked in the street in front of him, and John set to work. “No need, Finch,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

* * *

“I’m afraid I’ve lost the number,” Finch said, frustration clear in the way he spat out the last word.

John, who had been tracking the guy through his scope before he moved away from the windows and John’s sight, suppressed the urge to shiver. The guy was obsessed and very smart, which was a very dangerous situation, evident by the very stylish satchel the man was wearing and which contained a very dangerous bomb.

The building was now completely dark, devoid of any power that could sustain the lights — or the cameras. And there was not enough time for John to get there and find the guy before that bomb went off. 

“We really need to find him,” he said. “He’s going to kill dozens of people. You care about those people, don’t you?”

“Of course— what kind of question is that?! I’m doing everything I can, but I’m afraid it won’t be quick enough.” 

**I do. Fifth office from the right, seventeenth floor. Aim at the doors, about a metre above the floor.**

“I understand,” John said and took the shot.

* * *

“Mr Reese,” said Finch when John returned from that particular adventure, “I think you’ve been keeping something from me.”

John merely smiled and sat down.

“It has come to my attention that you have received information, vital to our… missions from some other source, which is deeply worrying for several reasons, one of them being the fact that you have informed other people of our existence without my permission.”

John didn’t say anything.

“But before I could panic more than I already have, I have realised that there is actually only one source that could possibly communicate with you without the use of electronic devices and also give you all the relevant information faster than even I could. And if this source is indeed who you’ve been in communication all along, it has been aware of our little operation since the beginning.”

Now John’s smile widened and he nodded.

Finch visibly sagged with relief. “Oh thank god,” he said, and then turned back to his computers.

This, of course, piqued John’s interest. “Is that it?” he asked.

“I do have a couple more questions, but they can wait.”

“You just learned the city’s talking to me, and that’s your only response,” John said with amusement.

“While I will admit to some curiosity about the city entity and its connection to you, I also know that it poses no imminent danger to us or our work and that it can even help sometimes. Do I need to know more?”

John fidgeted in his seat for a few moments. “Well, I thought you would want to know why it picked me of all people, or maybe you would want to ask it something—”

“Mr Reese, let me stop you right there. If the city wants to talk to you, that’s entirely your and its business. Frankly, I think it picked a very good person, no matter what you think about it.”

* * *

“Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. You have woken me at five for the past four days just to make sure I see the sunrise over the water? What, you think I don’t get out enough?”

The sun was slowly climbing over the horizon, but he stubbornly paid no attention to the spectacle, staring at the park rather the water and loudly airing his grievances. He didn’t have his earbud in and his phone was in his pocket, which made people steer away from the loony that was loudly arguing with the air.

The city remained silent, no answers forthcoming.

“I give up,” he finally said and pushed himself away from the railing ready to go home, which that was when he spotted her.

A young girl in casual clothes, carrying a small green backpack and also loudly arguing with thin air, walking straight towards him. 

“Hello,” she said when she reached him and offered him her hand. “Amanda.”

“John,” he said and shook it. 

She gave him a small smile and opened up her backpack, pulling something out of it. “I know you won’t believe me, but—”

“But New York asked you to deliver something to me,” he interjected, realising what had happened.

She sighed with relief and offered him a thick envelope. “And here I thought you were going to think I was crazy and refuse to accept this.”

“Thank you,” he said, “I know how it is.”

* * *

He had two more thick envelopes in his hands, similarly delivered, when he arrived back to the library and offered them to Finch.

“The city sends its regards,” he said. “These are for you.”

“And what exactly does the city wish us to do with them?” Finch asked.

**Open them. You will understand.**

“It says to look, Finch.”

Some brief struggle with tape later Finch was staring at a pile of papers with a pensive frown on his face. They were full of handwritten code, written by many different people.

“I’m afraid, Mr Reese, that this is something very not good,” Finch finally declared. “It’s a computer virus, and a very nasty one at that.”

**And it’s currently residing in several quite important systems in the city. They are momentarily without power, but I will be forced to switch them on in the near future.**

As John relayed the information, Finch’s frown only deepened. “That’s could be a disaster,” he said. And then: “I need to get to work.”

“Anything I can do?” asked John with no real expectations. CIA had taught him some stuff about coding and computers but nothing even close to Finch's capabilities, like comparing a pocket calculator to a sophisticated supercomputer. Well, maybe not even a pocket calculator but rather one of those wooden thingies, abacuses or something. 

The point was, he already knew what the answer was going to be, so he gave a short nod to acknowledge it and took two more guns with him as he left.

“Anything  _ you  _ need me to do?”

**Well, if you’re so conveniently free, then who am I to refuse.**

“You manipulated us into this situation, there was no happenstance and most certainly no convenience. You want something.”

**There might have been more to that virus story than I previously indicated.**

“Since you indicated exactly  _ nothing,  _ yes, I thought so. But do remember our agreement.”

**You’ll be properly compensated. Don’t worry.**

“Looking at how much arsenal you want me to pick up, I’m starting to think I should.”

* * *

“Mr Reese?”

The call came through at an unfortunate time. John kicked again at the guy holding him in a chokehold, but he didn’t budge. Instead he brought his arm yielding a knife dangerously close to John’s face, who used that moment of inattention to headbutt his would-be murderer and wrestle him to the floor.

A bullet to kneecaps might have been involved, but John figured he deserved it at that point.

“Yes?” he rasped, trying not to cough too much.

“Oh dear, are you alright?”

“Perfectly fine, Finch,” he whizzed and finally stood up. His left ankle was throbbing because of what he hoped was just a nasty sprain and he started limping forwards.

“While I most certainly don’t believe you, this is no time for rest. I’m texting you an address, meet me there as soon as you can.”

“Finch, you aren’t doing anything stupid?”

“I believe that is your domain, Mr Reese. But please do hurry.”

The call disconnected and John silently cursed himself and then Harold and then the city.

He started limping faster. “Did you put him up to this?” he asked.

**No, I would’ve also preferred he waited, but alas, he cannot be stopped. You really do need to hurry.**

“I figured. Find me a motorcycle and get ready to steer some traffic. A car accident would be just embarrassing at this point.”

* * *

Harold Finch was an unknown. A very private person whose magical abilities remained a secret even from very persistent stalkers, like one John Reese. At one point John even thought Harold was a shifter who shifted when John got too close and disappeared that way, but it was just a theory. Besides, being a shifter wouldn’t suit Harold. Shifters were the average people, usually brawn over brains and definitely nothing special, which was one of the few things John knew about Harold.

He had no clues to go on, no trail to follow and no one to ask, so he was mostly engaging in wild speculations, hoping to guess the truth and come off as smart and a little bit all-knowing. 

This obsession with wanting to impress Harold wasn’t healthy.

But all of that was irrelevant now as he stared at Harold, who in turn was staring at a barrel of a gun, pointed at his head.

The gun holder and therefore currently the unluckiest bastard on this planet was talking, or rather yelling at Harold.

“Give me that disk, right now or I’ll blow your head clear off!”

There were four other thugs in the room with him which John’s brain acknowledged and pushed aside. His almost tunnel vision was focused on Harold and Harold only. No distractions and no holding back. 

**Wait.**

He shook his head. He wasn’t waiting. If Harold died… Well, he wouldn’t be the only one.

**You need to wait. There is a sniper.**

John’s finger, which was already on the trigger, froze. He looked up and around, and found a hunched figure over a rifle, pointing it directly at the confrontation.

He had missed the sniper.  _ He had missed something.  _ And it could’ve— would’ve killed Harold if not for—

**Focus. That disk contains the code Harold wrote for me and it needs to be delivered.**

“My first objective is Harold,” he whispered.

**I know. But think of what he would want.**

“Certainly not to die.”

**I know.**

He didn’t answer because Harold had moved and was now speaking.

“Alright,” he said, his voice placating and calm, but John could hear his nervousness. “Alright, you can have it. Can you just— point the gun somewhere else, please?”

The man huffed a short laugh and reached for the disk that Harold was offering him.

**Take out the sniper, now.**

“But—”

**Trust me.**

The sniper went down in one shot that went unheard over the loud yelling that came from the room.

There were several very large and very green snakes next to each of the men, with one squeezed around the arm of the man holding the gun who was now turning white with fear.

Harold,  _ a summoner, because of course,  _ was now effectively in control of the entire room.

“If you get to the hospital immediately, they might give you the antidote in time,” he loudly said. “But, maybe not. Depends on how fast you are. This poison does spread remarkably fast. And don’t even think about shifting. Magic only speeds it up.”

John was already racing down the stairs as fast as he could with his limp just to barely miss the six guys running out like there was fire on their heels.

But it was only Harold and six very pretty snakes.

“You took your time,” he said. “And didn’t even shoot anyone.”

John chose not to mention the sniper. “You’re a summoner,” he said instead, parroting back the words Harold had said to him oh so long ago.

“Well, I am a very private person,” Harold said.

John looked at the snakes. “I thought it would be birds,” he admitted.

Harold snapped his fingers and the snakes disappeared. Then he picked up the hard drive that had fallen onto the floor in all the excitement and was making his way towards the computer banks in the back of the room. “Oh, they  _ were  _ birds, before.”

John, who had up until that point been scanning the perimeter of any additional threats, now almost missed a step. “What? Summoned animals can’t  _ change, _ Harold _.” _

“They can, but very rarely. There are almost no documented cases, and even those are thought to be a fluke. But it can happen. I’m a living proof.”

Despite the relatively unbothered voice and stance that Harold was trying to project, John knew him good enough to recognize the uncertainty and a touch of fear. “Well, you never cease to surprise me, Finch. But why didn’t you tell me? If I knew you could call upon venomous snakes I wouldn’t be half as worried about you as I’m normally.”

“What on Earth gave you the idea that these snakes were venomous?” Harold turned to him with an air of perplexity and just maybe some amusement to show him his frown, and then back to the servers.

“You said so yourself.”

“I was lying, Mr Reese. Emerald tree boas aren’t venomous and they eat only very small creatures. They couldn’t kill a person.”

John almost facepalmed. “You bluffed a gunman holding a gun to your head?”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Sometimes I hate you, Finch.”

“Uh-oh,” Harold said and went still, which didn’t look like a proper response to John’s last quip. He raced over to see if everything was okay, and together they stared at an open plastic box with a big red button in the middle of it that had clearly been pressed.

“Silent alarm,” Harold said. “It’s been set off. The backup will be here soon, we have to hurry—”

“Actually, I already took care of that,” John admitted. “That’s why I was late. Sorry.”

Harold stared at him for a couple of seconds and then abruptly turned back to the server rack. “We still need to hurry. Somebody might come and check at any time.”

* * *

Despite his worries, they finished in relative peace and were already on their way out when the ambush happened.

They had semi-automatics, full body armour and there were at least seven of them. They did not want to negotiate if the relentless bullets they unleashed upon Harold and John were any indication. 

“Is there a way out?” frantically demanded John. They were pinned between a wall and a storm of bullets, nowhere to go. He had known what the answer was going to be even before he even asked the question and yet hope was the last resource of the desperate.

**No.**

No apology, no sadness or sympathy, just like always. 

“Is there a way out for  _ him?” _ he asked again.

Harold’s cry of ‘John, no!’ and the usage of his first name  _ almost  _ made him relent, but Harold was a priority, a necessity, and John — it had been a while since John was anything more than an expendable tool.

**Maybe. Very low chance of success. There’s a door on the opposite wall, about a meter to the right.**

To the right, straight into the direction of the shooters. John considered this for a moment and for the first time truly regretted the absence of his summoning ability. Even just one wolf would’ve been of great help. He couldn’t guarantee Harold’s survival right now, which almost broke him.

Wasn’t that his primary mission? Harold might’ve chosen him to work on the numbers, but for him Harold had always been and still was  _ everything.  _ The reason he woke up and made it through his day, which was admittedly very unhealthy, but John had stopped acknowledging that particular descriptor a long time ago.

But that was only a small part of his brain acknowledging his dependency on Harold, as most of it was screaming with the need to protect and save so loudly that it almost physically hurt not to be able to offer that.

There was burning in his veins and he couldn’t hear the guns over the loud drumming of his heartbeat. His gun slid from his unfeeling fingers and he almost stumbled right after it, with his heart trying to burst from his chest. He looked at Harold next to him, saw his fear and resignation, which was all that it took.

He didn’t know whether he had screamed in pain as the pain burst within him like a bubble, but it was a safe bet. The sounds rushed back and under the onslaught of screams and gunfire he collapsed on the floor, hands wrapped around his head.

* * *

“Military attack drones aren’t animals,” John repeated for probably the tenth time. Everyone had heard the story of the guy that could summon a pack of roombas but no one had actually  _ believed it, oh no, that would be crazy! _

Which it still  _ was,  _ no matter that John had apparently called up five or so military grade drones of an unknown class and origin and saved the day and got the man (not really) while only half conscious. 

Finch, who was bent over him and trying to scrub off the dried blood of his shoulder while not injuring him further, scrubbed a little harder for a moment. “And?” he asked. “How exactly are they different from animals?”

“Well, for a start, they are  _ built _ and not  _ born.” _

“Which is coincidentally also the only concrete argument you or anyone had been able to present.”

“They are weapons of mass destruction.”

“And a pack of wolves isn’t dangerous?” Finch asked him, raising his head to look him in the eyes. “Mr Reese, I am very grateful that you managed to extract us from such a helpless situation and do not bear any ill will towards the manner in which said extraction was enacted.”

“Not only have I only today found out that summons could change, but mine did to fucking robots.”

Finch didn’t even flinch at the profanity. “Technically, a robot and a drone—”

“Not the point!” John hissed and stood up, slapping a handkerchief onto the wound and stalking away from Finch and his emergency emergency room. They were in one of the previously unknown safehouses that Harold kept, but that new knowledge wasn’t bringing him any good will at the moment. “I don’t know how you can be so calm,” he grumbled, “or do you see such freaks every day?”

“That’s not—”

“Maybe you’re just not disturbed because you knew this was going to happen,” John continued, his voice still far calmer than he thought the situation called for. “Did you know I could do that? Is that why you hired me? Did the CIA know they could do this to me? Is that why they sent me to do all those things?  _ Did you know, Finch?” _

Finch’s eyes were wild, widely opened and pleading: “No, I had no idea.”

“So why the hell aren’t you freaking out now? How can you still stand to touch me, to touch such a monster?”

They stared at each other in total silence for a moment.

“I should go,” John finally realised. “I have to leave, I’m sorry, I—”

But Finch reached for his arm and grabbed his hand: “John!”

That stopped him and shocked him like ice cold water hitting his overheated body in the middle of summer. “Please let go.”

“When are you going to understand that neither of us is leaving? I am not letting you go, and I am most certainly not walking away! You are  _ not  _ making this decision for us.”

“Us, Finch? I know next to nothing about you, and we have both risked our lives for each other multiple times. But I guess I expected too much.”

Finch took a deep breath before he spoke: “I care about you, Mr Reese.”

John grimaced at his last name, but let him continue.

“I truly do, and I want to protect you and this… operation.”

“And you think I would be in too much danger if I knew more? Please, I have more secret agencies with acronyms for names hunting me than I can count, and you think I could be in  _ more  _ danger?” He turned back towards the doors. “That’s a poor excuse and you know it.”

“My name is Harold and my favourite animal is a Blue Jay, my favourite colour being that of its wings. I was born in Iowa and my parents are dead and I had an older sister but she died when I was three years old. I have eleven active aliases, three of which I regularly make appearances for. I could summon crows until a terrorist attack and the death of my best friend, which also led to my injuries.”

He would’ve continued talking if John hadn’t started shaking his head: “You don’t have to, Finch.”

“I have made many mistakes in my life, Mr Reese, and I do not wish to commit another one. If finding out such—”

“But that’s not what I want! If I truly wanted to find out everything about you, I would’ve just asked the city. What, you thought it wouldn’t tell me?” he asked, seeing the astonished expression on Finch’s face. “It trusts me. It would tell me almost everything. But I never asked because I thought… You said you would never lie to me. So I thought you would eventually come to trust me, but I see that won’t happen.”

“Mr Reese—”

“I don’t want to force the information out of you,  _ Harold,”  _ John said, stressing his name. “If I did, then I would’ve interrogated you when you were drugged.”

“And I am very grateful that you hadn’t, but—”

“So you spilling all your darkest secrets under threat is no better. It’s alright, Finch,” he added, seeing Finch’s expression, “I understand now. You can never trust me, or anyone. But it  _ is  _ alright. I’ll keep my distance. I won’t even come back to the library, if you want. We don’t have meet in person any longer.”

“But that’s not what I want,” said Finch and then looked like the words had escaped him.

“Really, Finch? Because your actions certainly indicate it. But look on the bright side — I’m not angry about my summons and longer.”

And he even gently closed the doors behind him, ignoring the impulse that wanted to slam them so hard that they bounced off the wall.

* * *

**He cares about you.**

And now the city was interfering.

“He might, but maybe I need something more tangible than words. Nothing ever changes, does it.” Besides, sooner or later Finch would cut him loose. If he started keeping his distance, then it might even not be that bad.

Oh, who was he kidding.

“You’re not responsible for me,” he told it which was only a margin above the classic ‘you’re not my mom’ response.

**Maybe I want to be.**

“Well, that’s unfortunate for you.” The night was relatively warm and he was just wandering aimlessly. His phone was silent. 

There was no one around, and he didn’t feel too weak, so he simply extended his arm and called.

The drone he summoned was maybe two metres big and with no visible markings that would indicate its maker or owners. It was dark grey and clearly very well armed. 

“I didn’t know combat drones could float like that,” he told it with a small smile. It was good to feel that power again. For a moment he almost felt  _ whole. _

**It certainly is a beauty.**

That immediately erased his smile. “It’s a very dangerous weapon.”

**And very sleek.**

“Drones are an abhorrent weapon of mass destruction and should’ve never been made. I wonder what that says about me.”

**I suspect you would greatly benefit from a therapist.**

“No surprises there,” he murmured, “but they generally expect the truth and that is one thing I cannot give.” He watched the drone for a moment longer before dismissing it and sticking his hands into pockets. “Where to?” he asked.

**Your apartment?**

“I need to  _ do  _ something.”

**You are injured.**

“It doesn't matter. Give me something to do or I will  _ find  _ something to do. Just don’t whine later that I ruined all your carefully laid plans, alright?”

* * *

“Mr Reese.”

“Yes, Finch?”

“Oh thank God, I wasn’t sure you would answer. We have a new number.”

“I told you I just needed some time off. Who is it?”

“Come to the library, we can discuss it here.”

“If you’re sure.”

“That is the one thing I am absolutely certain of.”

* * *

The new number was a professional horticultural therapist, which was a first, her name was Amber Arnott and she owned a very rare orchid. John looked at her picture again — a reasonably pretty woman in her early twenties with dark black hair and a pleasant smile — and then at Finch.

“You couldn’t have told me that over the comms?”

“Yes, but I wanted to see you.”

That stopped John in his circuit of the room. “Really?” he asked.

“Really. I rather enjoy your company.”

John knew this was all just Finch’s way of saying sorry, but he had to admit he still quite liked it. “Well,” he said for a lack of a better response, “that’s very nice.”

“I have come to realise, Mr Reese, that I have given you a rather faulty perception of a rather important part of our relationship. I value you far more than a simple employee and while my secrecy might not have properly revealed my feelings in the past, I hope that I might be able to mend our relations.” Finch looked hopeful, uncertain, almost like he was speaking the truth.

And that  _ almost  _ was enough for John. After all, it was Finch  _ (Harold) _ who gave him hope again, and if he wished to ruin it, that was his prerogative.

“Thank you,” he said in a far softer tone than what he wanted. “I would really like that.”

The smile he received was everything he had hoped for.

* * *

* * *

**Epilogue**

John cursed, hit the earbud, cursed again as it screeched and took it out. Comms were down, great. He was practically running blind already, and now this. The day (night) kept getting better and better.

The road was a blind one, ending with a very tall and smooth wall, the enemy of climbers. 

He kept running. It was going to sort itself out, somehow.

**Left.**

He immediately threw his entire body that way, managing to just escape a freaking spear that shot past him and embedded itself into the wall. His shoulder took the bulk of the fall and he ignored the pain in order to pick himself up and continue running. 

The screaming behind him picked up, but the spear was positioned very conveniently. He only considered whether it was strong enough as he already leaped onto it in order to propel himself over the wall.

It held, and he landed in what appeared to be an abandoned parking lot, concrete everywhere and no one in sight.

**Left.**

He turned towards a big warehouse, following the instruction. “What’s that?” he asked.

**You need a safehouse. That’s the one belonging to your pursuers.**

John stared for a moment longer. “You serious?” he said and took off towards it.

**It’s currently empty and easily defendable, if you manage to secure the main entrance.**

“That shouldn’t be a problem.”

Looking up at the at least three metres tall reinforced doors his innocuous statement seemed very foolish.

There was yelling behind him and he immediately jumped behind a container to avoid the wave of bullets sent his way. They must have built a human ladder or something, but the gang was all here and shooting at him and he could even hear animals howling and yapping. Damn summoners, always meddling where they shouldn’t.

He was maybe a little out of options, what with no weapon or an escape plan.

Except, of course, he was never totally unarmed. “You sure this is abandoned?” he asked.

**There are only seven people here and they are all shooting at you. No one else is anywhere near.**

“Thank you,” he said, because it paid to be polite to the entity responsible for your life.

Then he focused. This wasn’t the time for precision and kneecapping — this was the time for superior firepower and explosions, and he knew  _ exactly  _ where to get that.

A deep intake of breath and he let the power wash over him. It gushed  through his veins like it had just escaped from a broken dam, gathering and pulling, pushing to be let out, to be let soar and be set free, to run and ruin and  _ destroy. _

He needn't even focus on spatial coordinates any more, but it gave him an illusion of normality that he was reluctant to abandon. But the attack formation the apparitions formed after materializing was one of their own making, dug out from deep down, from the darkness of Reese's memories, a place his nightmares usually surfaced from.

John watched with satisfaction as three military grade drones, each at least a metre and a half in length, lay waste all around him, obliterating every living being that was not him and leaving only scorched earth behind.

They were fast and efficient, and he even let them fly a victory lap before dismissing them. Inspecting the ruined surroundings he couldn’t help but wince. “Sorry.”

**Don’t worry, this area will soon be bulldozed over and rebuilt.**

“You’re too good for me.”

**Of course.**

His phone was ringing and he reached into his jacket, wincing again, this time at the pain in his shoulder.

“It’s done,” he said as the call connected. “And I’m alright, so sushi tonight?”

After a moment of silent surprise, Flinch’s relieved voice came through: “I was very worried, Mr Reese. Are you hurt? Do you require transportation?”

“Not really and not really, but I would be grateful if we could order in. I’m exhausted.”

“Of course, Mr Reese. I will send you the address as soon as I order. And… I don’t suppose I have someone to thank for your survival? I am very grateful and would like to express my—”

“It’s alright, it knows.”

“Really? Well, that’s very good.”

“See you soon, Harold.”

“See you soon… John.”

Finch ended the call and John was still wearing a stupidly big smile when the city gently reminded him that he needed to get moving, told him how to get to his motorcycle and even showed him the stash of weapons, hidden in the safehouse.

John wondered if it was his birthday for a second.


End file.
